So the Summer Passed
by SlowQuotesQuill
Summary: AU. It became a mutual relationship of sorts, a relationship founded on their mundane routine and regularity, but an odd relationship nonetheless, whenever he stopped to look at it. He doesn't even bother to look for the chance to learn her name. He just thinks of her as "the girl." And for his simplistic self, that is enough. ...So the summer passed. Ore/Chi. Oneshot.


…**So the Summer Passed**

* * *

_The sneering heat haze plunders away one darkened world after another  
__It's been repeating for tens of years, you probably have noticed by now  
__This kind of frequently told story has only one ending,  
__But it can be found beyond those repeating summer days_

—**Heat Haze Days**, Hatsune Miku (trans.)

* * *

He could remember the first time that they had ever met.

It was in the public library, and he was sitting in the corner, reading a book as usual.

Every summer, it had always been his custom to hang out in the library on afternoons—it was too chillingly silent at home for him to indulge in a comfortable nap, anyway. And here in the library, he could always count on the air conditioning, that it was always almost empty in the afternoons, and that they are open until five pm. The librarians already know him by face, if not by name.

He rarely uses his library card to borrow books, after all. Every time, he just picks a book at random to read and sits by the window. If he can finish it before the clock strikes, he's fine with it. If he can't, it's all the same to him. He deems it too much of a bother to go to the desk and check out a book that he can pick out again the next day.

To them, the librarians behind the desk, he is the tall, slouching high school boy with the huge black-rimmed glasses who always reads in one of the comfortable couches beside the coffee table by the curtained windows. And leaves at precisely 4:50 pm each time. Just ten minutes before the closing of the library.

To him, this library is a sanctuary, with its quiet atmosphere, unbroken except by the soothing rustle of pages. And this was where he first met her.

* * *

It is a simple summer afternoon, as usual—the summer vacation of his first high school year.

And he spent it, as was wont, in his corner by the widest library window. The sunlight beat down on the curtain on the other side, and it balanced the cold air in the library. In his corner, the temperature is always just pleasantly right—not too cold, not too hot. He enjoys it alone, as was custom. And that was how he liked it.

And so when he looked up from his book and saw a girl sitting across him, with huge, clear eyes and determined eyebrows, he feels slightly flummoxed, as never in his three years of summer patronage in the library had someone actually sat down on the other chair that was across the coffee table beside his. She is reading some kind of picture book about… wait, was that about dung beetles? What kind of girl reads about bugs? In summer time?

He looks around discreetly, so as to not attract the attention of his new neighbor, and sees what he had expected to see—an almost empty reading lounge, with more chairs scattered around than there were people. Normal people do a whole lot of other things in summer vacation, don't they?

But then that would mean that he wasn't strictly normal as well, he thinks. He was the kind of guy who'd come in the library at summer afternoons and spend them on reading Christie or King or Murakami.

He never was energetic to begin with.

And the house is empty.

And so what was this girl doing, sitting here with him in his corner when there were more places where she can sit? She even looked like the kind who wouldn't choose to do an activity like this in normal circumstances—she read like a person who couldn't bear to sit still. She fidgeted in her couch. She bit her fingernails. She squirmed in excitement. (And he couldn't figure what was so exciting about dung beetles, for that matter. Which was saying something, as he deems himself the dullest person in existence.)

He takes his eyes off this lively creature and turns back to his book. Suddenly, he cannot make neither head nor foot of what he was reading, as though his mind had decided that reading the regular type printed on the yellowing page was infinitely more uninteresting than continuing to study the young lady enthusiastically reading beside him. And so, unlike most days, sixteen-year-old Oreki Houtarou gives up on his book in favor of examining a real, three-dimensional person.

He couldn't really say that she was the most beautiful person he had ever seen, nor was the word graceful particularly fitting, but she seemed elegant in the way she held herself, even when she was practically gasping with delight in her seat. He sighs and sits back when his eyes were finished feasting on the strange girl, and looks up at the ceiling to study its fading white paint, wondering whether to go back to his reading or nap. Either option seemed fine at this point…

_"Um, hello? Excuse me?" _

He was suddenly being shaken awake by a gentle hand on his shoulder, the book on his chest almost dropping to the floor when he jerks back upright. Catching it before it fell unceremoniously on the immaculately waxed wooden flooring, he looked up and found himself staring in the big, clear eyes of the girl that he had been watching just a moment ago—

"It's already five o'clock. The librarian asked me if I can wake you up already… She seemed to think we came in together." She gives him a light, apologetic smile, as though she was the one who made the mistake instead of the librarian.

—no, make that almost an hour ago. He _did_ fall asleep, didn't he?

Pink-faced, he nods, and thanks her for waking him up.

"No, well, she did tell me to wake you up," she says with a shake of her head, as though to downplay his thanks.

"So does that mean you wouldn't have woken me up if not for her?" he asks her with a raised eyebrow.

"No! I mean, yes! I mean…" She seems unsure how to answer his question properly, but then rearranges her thoughts and says, "I mean, I would have even if she didn't tell me, but… You looked… you looked so… so _tired_. It would be a pity," she mumbles, quietly, as if to herself.

He was surprised at this response, and since he can't think of anything appropriate, he just picks the most noncommittal sound to reply with. "Ah."

He yawns as she looks down, flustered, and stands up to return his book to its shelf. The girl watches him, and, as if it was the most natural thing to do, stands up to follow him.

"What are you following me for?" he asks, rather crossly, as he goes past the quiet shelves, filled with more books than he could possible read in a lifetime. She instead smiles, arrestingly.

"I'm sorry, that was rude of me. I was just curious about what kind of books a person like you reads," she replies, innocently.

"Really?" he says with a bored tone.

"Eh?" She seems unsure again as to how best to answer.

He decides that watching this girl get flustered is getting more entertaining as time goes.

"Okay, you don't have to answer that." He locates the place where he took the book and slides it in neatly, watching as the book he had been reading just an hour ago lost its individuality and merged with the other books to form a generic-looking wall of books. He remembers something that his sister once told him, a lifetime ago. _Don't you think that from this distance, all books look the same? _

The girl looks rather relieved, and follows him back to the huge glass doors at the entrance. He notices that she had already ditched the book about dung beetles that she had been reading earlier.

"I'm going this way," the girl announces when they reach an intersection. He just nods, and starts to walk to the direction where he was supposed to be going, but the girl suddenly asks out loud, "Are you coming to the library again tomorrow?"

He shrugs, and merely says, "Who knows."

* * *

And yet, the next few days pass with him returning to the library irresistibly, because the house is cold and he has nothing better to do.

The two of them always stay in the same place, the same time, every day. He gradually learns to tolerate the presence of the girl in his space, but finds that he has learned almost nothing about her own person except that she likes reading about different types of bugs and plants, picking a different book to read whenever she finished looking at one. He does find it odd that she loves to read about crops too, though, instead of flowers.

"I came from a family of farmers," she explains quite simply, when he had finally mustered the energy, and the courage, to ask her his question one afternoon.

* * *

Thus they continued to co-exist. The girl slowly becomes a constant in the equation that was his summer. It became usual for him to see her some days waiting for him, smiling up at him whenever he approached with his book. Sometimes she sneaks in sweets, and they share it secretly under the coffee table, their hands ducking underneath to snatch a cookie whenever the librarian looked away from them.

And it became usual for her, as well, to see him some days napping in the sunlight that fell on his chair, waiting for her, his wavy dark hair glowing brown as the sunbeams play on them. Sometimes he brings books of his own from his sister's bookcase and lets her borrow them overnight, classic literature and graphic novels and picture books—especially picture books, since in his own quiet, boyish, observant way, he had observed how she prefers them over books that were heavier on text.

Thus it became a mutual relationship of sorts, a relationship founded on their mundane routine and regularity, but an odd relationship nonetheless, whenever he stopped to look at it. He doesn't even bother to look for the chance to learn her name. He just thinks of her as "the girl." And for his simplistic self, that is enough.

So the summer passed.

* * *

And along with the passage of summer, the heavy rains frequent in number.

He slowly falls into the habit of waiting for her below the traffic lights where they first parted, watching the blur of gray-colored people walk past him and picking her out almost immediately whenever she finally gets off her bus. It is easy because she is the only rose-colored spot that his wide, rain-spattered glasses couldn't obliterate, and thus the only one allowed the honor of sharing the small space beneath his dark blue umbrella. She always had an umbrella in hand as well, but it seemed strangely natural for her to just duck underneath the one that he brings, for even clad in his cold armor, she could feel the warmth of his arm through his sleeve.

In the library, she takes small glances at the simple picture that he makes when he seats himself in his usual chair, his huge glasses perched on his nose and bequeathing an intellectual air about him. She wonders if his poor eyesight was due to his excessive reading, then thinks the better of asking him about it when he soon drops off, his green eyes getting eclipsed by long lashes and heavy eyelids.

Today, she again wonders if it truly was because of a love for literature that he goes in the library every day of this long summer vacation. And then she sees the book in his hand, and smiles, and decides that she wouldn't care whatever his answer might be, anyway.

Even if the reason was ugly, or colorless, or trivial.

She takes out a box of chocolates from her bag, places it on the secret place under the coffee table, and eats one, all by herself.

She wonders if he might wake up today in time to share the candy with her.

* * *

As the heat waned and the days went by, he suddenly finds that he spends more time than he should have by listening to her talk.

They have taken to sitting by the artificial riverbank near the library after its closing time, their feet dangling just above the clear water, the orange sunset shining on their faces as they talk—or rather, as she talks and he listens.

He loves to listen more than to contribute to the conversation, as her lovely voice as she narrated her day seems more preferable to listen to than to his own petty complaints in life.

"What about you?" she then asks him out of the blue, and he starts, as he isn't used to her asking about his day. It has been usual for her to stop herself for some reason whenever she begins to frame a question for him. He appreciated her reading of the atmosphere, so it flustered him when she finally gathers the courage to ask him a personal question.

Below and before them, the waters sparkle with a heady golden color.

Instead of answering her straightforwardly, he asks her if she would want to come to his house. And she hears something undefinable underlying his tone, and agrees.

They end up walking to his house together, quietly, their heads bowed under the single umbrella as a drizzle begins all around them. The red sunlight dyed him a less grayer than before, when they were just mere acquaintances.

She loves the feeling of the nonexistent distance between them. It convinces her to not think too much of anything.

He likes the feeling of her warm hand as it darts and finally closes the gap, reassuring him, because for some reason, his own fingers feel ice-cold.

* * *

The house at the corner of the street looks lonely to their eyes, and when he unlocks the door and enters, she hesitates for a moment before following, her eyes catching small details in the gray house.

He looks around as well, seeing the wall clock that was perpetually frozen at three minutes past eleven, the picture frame beside the silent telephone, the paperback book on the coffee table before the television. He could half-hear his sister amble out of her room, perhaps sleepily, her voice dully calling for him, but he just continues to stand there, clutching at the warm hand of the girl beside him, and the still pervades the house again. Perhaps his sister has gone back to whatever she was doing.

The girl squeezes his hand, taking him unawares.

"It's a nice house," she remarks, quietly, politely.

"It's too silent in here, though," he counters, his tone fragile.

"Then let's turn on the lights," she suggests, and moves as though to make for the nearby switch, but his hand tenses beneath hers and she freezes in place.

"No," he says, and it seems as though she could sense a hint of doubt in his voice.

She looks at him, and sees how he squinted at her.

"Then," she says, and her hand comes to rest on the side of his face, to the heavy frame of his glasses. "Let me take this off instead."

"I—"

But he could not utter another word before she smoothly removed the glasses from his nose.

Immediately his head feels lighter and his world becomes sharper, his eyes widening in reflex as he stares at her smiling face, her violet eyes. He realizes that it was the first time that he had ever seen her truly, his mind dimly registering the fact that it is a dim orange outside. Night is falling slowly.

"Can you see now?" she asks. "The truth?"

_Yes. _

"Yes." It was barely above a whisper.

* * *

How could he have forgotten that this house used to be so full of color?

He looks around a second time, and sees the house quite differently: the wall clock, its glass black with soot, the broken frame beside the disconnected telephone, the half-burnt paperback book on the coffee table before where the television once stood. The dust on everywhere his memories could reach. He listened, and heard nothing but the noise of the cicadas outside quietly fading.

"I've been wearing them for too long," he remarks, and he pulls the glasses from her hands and places them beside the telephone. Its lenses glinted up at them wearily.

"Ah," she says. "Is that the clock?"

He notes how absurd the clock looked, as the broken mechanism suddenly decided to count the seconds after years of not functioning.

_Tick tock tick tock tick tock._

* * *

As she eats dinner that night with her family, she thinks about the boy all alone in the big gray house, eating a sandwich from the convenience store, perhaps, or sitting on the couch by his lonesome, the moonlight streaming through the window to illuminate half of his face and leaving the other half bathed in shadow.

She looks surprised as her father suddenly calls her out, and apologizes and smiles uncomfortably as she answers the question meant for her.

The paintings and scrolls that hung on the walls seemed to blur into a single river of color as they all broke up for the night, and she stands up, and unobserved, slips outside to pay a visit to the nearby shrine.

She prays for a better weather tomorrow, and claps her hands and bows her head after tossing a couple of coins between the wooden grating and ringing the bells.

She remembers to stop by the ancestral graves by the back of the shrine, and crouches by the simple marker on the very end, placing an overused pair of huge glasses by the incense holder and clapping her hands once again.

_May the gods grant us warm weather tomorrow._

* * *

She waits the next day for him, and waits, and waits, but he does not appear.

The umbrella over her head went down at the last drops of rain, and she stood there, her eyes, which were as purple as lavender fields, a brilliant splash of color in the crowd, her surroundings now colorful in the sunlight.

The rainy season has left late, the radio from a nearby shop informs her.

The sun overhead shines hotly on her black hair, and she feels dizzy.

_I'll see you next summer. _His last words to her before the great fire echo in her head, sadly. And yet she feels relieved that he doesn't show up today, as was scheduled.

She turns after three hours of waiting, and then was gone in the crowd.

In the last day of summer, the librarians never see her pass through the glass doors for the first time since a lifetime.

* * *

To them, the librarians behind the desk, she was the slender, graceful young woman with the huge violet eyes who reads in one of the comfortable couches beside the coffee table by the curtained windows. And leaves at precisely 4:50 pm each time. Just ten minutes before the closing of the library.

To her, this library is a sanctuary, with its quiet atmosphere, unbroken except by the soothing rustle of pages. And this was where she had always met him.


End file.
